Thursday, October 05, 2006

Numb as can be (Tears Pt. 4)

Last May, one Thursday morning, before catching the bus for the show in Brighton, was at this UFFC press conference in St. Peter's church near Piccadilly regarding their ongoing fight to get justice for their loved ones killed by the cops.

As usual shame on how little people showed up. Which was why I went in the first place. Besides picking up loads of the leaflets they were launching, that is.

Been a while since I'd been in a church. Mostly funerals actually. Grandfather, Grandmother, my sister's stillborn, relatives of family friends. (Plus one baptism, for a change).

Only at my godmother's funeral I wasn't there, but en route to Bath screening our infamous film at a festival, actually on the train in from Luton whith a local friend when my mother called on my mate's mobile saying she'd died. (First time I'd set a foot on an airplane after more than 20 years. That much it had made me feel guilty ...)

Though in St. Peter's was the bereaved telling about missing their loved ones suddenly making my sight blur.

Actually at some point had to tell myself like, bottle it now, you can cry as much as you want on the bus, but don't make no racket here, ok? Which was about what I did. Plus starting to write this:

When my godmother died 3 years ago, took me more than 1 1/2 years to realise I'd never really mourned for her. Even worse, that I hadn't cried at all for much, much longer. Numb inside. Numb as can be.

I remember, I'd been visiting her and her husband just before leaving for the UK. Her already being in a real bad shape. Cancer in the liver, just returned home after what was supposed to be the first round of chemotherapy.

And as usual the suckers at the hospital obviously too f**king tight on the morphine. So she was in terrible pain, unable to digest anything any more. Just puked it all out again shortly after swallowing it. Screaming the pain away.

Of course, her husband didn't want me go to her. So I only saw her through the open bedroom door when I left. Sitting on her bed, holding a plastic bucket in her lap, probably trying hard not to puke wile I could see her.

So I just waved her good bye on my way to the appartment door. Last time I ever saw her.

As long as I'll live I'll curse myself for not going over to her. That I didn't shook her hand or put my hand on her shoulder.

Same old story again again ...

(continued ...)

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